


He is My Penance

by Booklover2526



Series: We are Soldiers, but We are Brothers First [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 3x04, Angst, Aramis Angst, Aramis is a sad boy, Constance is a good friend, Episode Tag, F/M, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Just my own quick editing, Might add a part 2, Minor comfort, No beta reader, References to Prostitution, The Queen's Diamonds, haven't decided yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Booklover2526/pseuds/Booklover2526
Summary: After the events of season 3, episode 4 (The Queen's Diamonds), Aramis is polishing his pistol in the kitchen after everyone has gone to bed.  Constance comes to meet him and they talk about the day's events, and Aramis's unwillingness to share his past.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Constance Bonacieux, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Series: We are Soldiers, but We are Brothers First [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938727
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58





	He is My Penance

**Author's Note:**

> I might add a part 2 to this, but for now I am marking it as finished. 
> 
> I was re-watching the Musketeers, and I have a lot of feelings about season 3. Not that the plot isn't good or anything, but more towards our favorite Musketeers and how they changed this season in their relationships with each other. Also the fact that in this particular episode, Aramis does not share any details of his past with anyone but Constance, and if she hadn't walked in on him and Pauline, I doubted he would have with her either. 
> 
> Also, I love Constance and Aramis's relationship/moments together when we get to see them. 
> 
> Minor Trigger Warning: The word "whore" is used once in this work.

“You didn’t tell them. Why not?” 

Aramis turned around slowly, looking up from where he had been polishing his pistol in the glow of the fireplace in the cook’s quarters. It was quiet here at this time of night, when the only light in the city was torches, the waxing moon, and the occasional star whose light managed to filter down through the cloud cover. All the dishes were done, and everything was prepped for the cook to come in in the early morning to finish baking the currently rising bread dough and cut cheese and set out dried meat.

Constance stood in the doorway, creeping into the room and shutting the door lightly behind her. She had dressed down out into just her nightgown and underclothes, her auburn hair trailing down her back now that it was free of its pins. Aramis set his gun onto the stool in front of him that already had his cleaning supplies upon it, turning back with a smile pulled onto his face.

“Madame D’Artagnan, are you propositioning me? It is quite inappropriate to come to meet me here without your dress on. What would your husband think?” He teased, watching as she walked further into the room and headed towards the wine rack. 

She rolled her eyes at him, giving him a smile. “Oh, we both know that that is not what I’m here for. You are not my type, and besides, my husband keeps me very happy.” She pulled a canter off the shelf followed by two mugs. 

“When he is not scaring me breathless or making me furious that is,” Constance added, and Aramis chuckled with her as she pulled a chair over and then poured them both wine. He tipped his head down towards her as he took the glass she offered him before knocking it back without much pause. While Aramis certainly did not want to pull an Athos and get completely wasted to forget everything bad that had ever happened to him, Aramis would not mind getting at least a little drunk if Constance was going to pursue with this conversation.

And it was Constance, so that was likely. It was one of the things Aramis admired about her.

As if to prove his point, Constance took a drink and said, “Do not deflect, Aramis. Why did you not tell them?” 

Aramis looked away from those piercing blue eyes, glanced at his hands, and then looked towards the fire. He could remember the feel of carefully spin silk under his palms and fingers, the way those same fingers had ached as he had to grip tightly onto Pauline while one of St. Pierre’s men had tied her hands together. He could feel the phantom of hot tears against the pad of his thumbs when before she had be taken to a jail cell he had taken a moment to wipe them off her face as he pressed a kiss to her brow. 

Aramis has hated himself for many things. This was another to add to the ever-growing list. 

“What in particular are you addressing? Why did I not tell them that I am the son of a prostitute and lived in a brothel for years? The truth of my connection to Pauline? There are many things I have never told them, Constance. Of which are you addressing?” Aramis asked. The fire snapped, and a chuck of coal sprung off one of the logs to land just outside the fireplace. With a gentle kick of his boot, it flew back in.

Cold fingers grasped onto his palm, and Aramis looked down to see Constance had reached over to hold his hand. She had dirt under her nails, a development that occurred once she started working at the Garrison. Before, she had had to keep them clean under her husband’s wishes and as was proper for being Her Majesty’s lady in waiting. 

Aramis studied her hand as she began again, “Both. Or all of it even. When I think back, I know so little about you, Aramis. We have been friends for years, and the most I know about you are stories from your days as a Musketeer with maybe little crumbs of facts otherwise that usually I only learned because of the circumstances. I have a feeling you have not told the others much more.” Aramis sighed, leaning back into the chair, and moving to cradle her hand between both of his. Rolling his fingers and applying a bit of pressure, he began to massage her fingers and palm. 

“There is not much from my life before becoming a Musketeer that I like to think about. Or talk about. It is not that I don’t feel guilty that my friends don’t know these things,” He glanced up, hoping she could see his earnestness. She usually had a talent for it. 

“Because I do feel guilty. I know what happened between Athos, Milady de Winter, and his brother. I know about Porthos’s time on the streets, and I have heard many stories about D’Artagnan’s time on the farm with his father and mother when she was alive. Yet, I am reluctant to share. Talking about my days as a Musketeer is easy, there is not much darkness or pain in those tales for the most part. Of course, talking about the comrades we have lost hurts, and Savoy is still something I can barely handling thinking about much less talking about. The rest is easy. With Savoy, I push it down and try to exist without thinking about it until something dredges it up. It is a trick I learned to deal with many things in my past.”

The chair scraped across the floor as Constance forced it to move over until she was pressed against his side but still seated in her own chair. They stared at the flames together for a long couple moments. He focused on carefully massaging the back of her hand with his thumbs.

“Pauline dredged up your childhood, didn’t she?” Constance finally asked, voice so soft that if the fire had popped at the moment Aramis doubted he would have heard her. He did though.

The back of his eyes felt heavy and hot, and he blinked against the firelight. “Yes. But I was happy with it this time. I had missed her terribly when I left the brothel and thought of her often even up until now. Whenever I would see prostitutes in the taverns or on the streets, I would wonder how she was doing, if she was doing the same thing. When I met her again, I was happy that she was getting to move onto a better life with someone who loved her, and that I would get to see it.”

Nails bit into his palms when Constance tightened her grip, and he forced himself not to flinch. “Was? Did something happen?” 

Ah, she was too perceptive. A small slip of the tongue was too easy for her to catch. Aramis kissed her knuckles, the skin now warm from the massage. He was glad it was not silk under his lips. 

“In two days’ time, I will need the day off to travel to St. Pierre’s estate. Pauline is to be hanged in the afternoon. I promised to be there.” He croaked, and a tear slipped free, the fire light unable to burn it away before it could fall. 

The hand in his was yanked away, and he turned to watch it flutter up to Constance’s lips as she gasped. She stared at him with wet eyes, pale and shivering. “She is being hanged? St. Pierre is hanging her for her past as a prostitute? We must stop this, Aramis!” She yelped.

Aramis shook his head slowly, letting himself cry for just a moment, and a strand of hair stuck to his wet cheeks. He would need to be strong later, while he waited for her execution day and the day of. He promised he would be there, and that he would smile for her one last time. 

Pauline had begged for him not to let her die without someone wishing her well as she went. St. Pierre surely would not be giving her any of those sentiments, neither would any of her budding friends within the nobility. There would be no one but Aramis there who cared for her now.

“The blackmailer…I found out who he was. He wanted to protect St. Pierre and Pauline, for he was worried the truth about her past would come out and ruin his master. He was not swayed when I demanded him to leave her alone, so I tried to convince her to tell St. Pierre the truth. After Athos and the others came and took the ring with the Queen of England’s sapphire in it, she went and confronted him. She didn’t want to lose anything else of the life she had built.” He sucked in a long breath, but it came out stuttered and broken when he added, “She killed him.”

Constance’s other hand flew to her mouth, as if to hold back the sob that escaped her mouth. He watched, his gut tight and twisted, as she began to cry. “That’s horrible,” She sobbed, wiping at her cheeks.

“She…” Constance trailed off, looking at him in such a helpless manner that he regrated telling her all that had happened.

“Oh Aramis,” She finally sighed, and his whole body tensed for a moment when her arms swept over and pulled him towards her body, his head resting on her shoulder and she combed her fingers through his hair. His heart ached, pulsing with a throbbing pain, and he relaxed into her hold. He was sure his tears were soaking the shoulder of her nightgown. 

They sat there for a few long minutes, both crying as quietly as they could. The fire moved merrily along the logs as if trying to cheer them up. Finally, Aramis pulled away and rubbed his calloused palms roughly over his cheeks and then over his eyes. It stung, but it felt good to feel a pain that was a bit more physical.

After taking a deep breath, he turned to her, letting a tired smile pull at his lips. With a flourish, his produced a handkerchief from inside his tunic and presented it to her with a small wave. She accepted it with an equally tired grin. 

They both took some time to steady themselves, Constance pouring him more wine and then herself after she finished her cup. It was some of the finer stuff they had on hand, a bit fuller and not as watered down as the stuff the Musketeers and cadets used when they desired getting drunk more than enjoying what they were drinking. It also often did not last long because it was Athos’s first choice whenever he decided to bum liquor off the kitchen stores. 

“D’Artagnan and the others think Pauline was just some girl you had slept with a while back. They were pretty upset and annoyed that you protested them taking the ring away. They were talking about it tonight while they ate dinner. So, I guess back to the original question. Why didn’t you tell them? I get why you didn’t tell them before, but why not now? At least so they would be a bit more understanding.”

Aramis closed his eyes, letting the world sit dark for a moment as he tried too breath through aching lungs. As he shoved and pushed down the hurt and sorrow that kept scrambling and crawling up his throat and along his heart since he had come back to the Musketeers. The feeling that had been there ever since he had recognized that he had broken his bond with his brothers when he had refused to leave the monastery to join another war, the bond that despite his best efforts seemed impossible to fix. 

Despite his jokes, teasing, and attempts at more meaningful conversations and moments with his brothers, they all fell flat. They did not provoke the same laughter or smiles they used to, his comments were often brushed aside, and often they moved away or closed themselves and their bodies off whenever he approached deeper topics. Aramis was often left out of jokes and teasing unless it held an undernote of unhappiness or displeasure, and the stories they shared in his presence often featured the war he had refused to be a part of. He was an outsider to their trio, and he could not figure out how to get back their affections and trust.

He didn’t think he would ever be able to at this rate.

Porthos, after seeing him for the first time in four years, had said, “We learned to live without you.”

They continued living without him besides when they were working.

Unless he was with them when they decided to go get dinner, drinks, or just go to play a few games at a local tavern, he went uninvited. Conversations about feelings or how someone was doing were either cut off when he approached, or if he was the one to broach the topic, avoided and his questions were largely left unanswered. Touches of any kind, like an arm over the shoulder, a hug, or clasping hands after a fight, were never offered to him and shrugged off if he initiated them.

Aramis’s decision to leave, and then his refusal to break his vow with God and his own desire to stay out of another war, had weathered at the bond between him and his brothers. It was still there, small threads still tying them together. However, those threads were ready to snap in a moment, and the rest of the rope seemed impossible to repair at least from his side. And his brothers were not offering to try on their side either, the bonds between all of them stronger and thicker than when he left. They didn’t need him anymore.

He wasn’t even sure they wanted him anymore. 

He threw back the rest of his glass, wishing he were drunk. Wishing that it brought life and warmth to the numb hole in his chest. “What does it matter, Constance? They would have taken it anyways, and they would still consider me their ‘penance’. Perhaps at most they would have been a bit more sympathetic, maybe they would have kept their ire to themselves about the whole incident. Or maybe I would have gotten asked if Pauline were the first girl I slept with, if I got my tricks and lines from my prostitute mother on top of my Spanish ancestry.”

He was not expecting the sharp spike of her hand slapping over his cheek, and he yelped as it connected and threw his vision dizzily to the side. His hand felt cool against the hot flesh as he touched it with shaky fingers. Constance was huffing from her spot besides him. 

“How could you say that? This is D’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos! Your friends! How could you think so lowly of them to even consider that they would say such things?” She snapped, her hands bunching up the fabric of her nightgown between her clenched fingers. He watched them instead her face.

“Constance, they already consider me to be a whore. In the past, I slept with quite a few women, and I like to flirt with those I don’t. You are right, they would never use that word, but only because I am a man and a Musketeer and by default that word does not apply to me. That, and they themselves are gentlemen. But in their mind, that is what I am. Your own husband said that if I wrote a memoir that a different woman’s name would need to appear on every page. Not my achievements or tales of my deeds, but that. If I told them that part of my past, particularly now that I have lost much of my connection with them, I really would not be surprised if it came up in connection to my flirtations and escapades even if it has been a long while since I was so frivolous,” Aramis bit back, suddenly angry. 

“Both Athos and Porthos claimed I am their penance, and D’Artagnan refused to disagree. Who am I to disagree with that assessment?”

The anger left as swiftly as it had surged up, leaving Aramis feeling nothing but hollow and cold despite the fire. He finally met her eyes again, watching as the blush that had covered her cheeks in her fury drained away. Her blue eyes were big, her mouth curled down.

He whispered, “I seem to be nothing but trouble for them. Something they must deal with, and the reason they do so is because they think it is their duty. Why add another burden to them, whether it be guilt, my sorrow, or keeping my past another secret?”

Constance opened her mouth, snapped it shut, and then tried saying something again. But nothing came forth, and it took the last of Aramis’s energy to smile at her. Those blue eyes watched him as he leaned forward and bundled his half-polished pistol and cleaning supplies into his arms. His back popped loudly in the quiet as he rose to his feet and let them carry him to the door. It took some maneuvering, but he got it open.

Aramis glanced back at Constance for one last time, taking in her pale skin, her trembling lips, and her white knuckles as her fingers burrowed themselves further into the fabric of her nightgown. “Go back to bed Constance, and sleep. This poor soldier thanks you for listening, but please do not concern yourself with the matter much more. I will be okay,” He whispered into the air between them.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. 

Aramis twisted away and crept out the door. He could finish polishing his guns in his room. He was fairly sure he had a bottle of wine stashed in there, so after finishing the chore, he could take a note out of Athos’s book for the night and drink the ache away. 

He had earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I might add a second part to this. Whether that is actual good comfort after this ending, or a reflection of the situation from another character's point of view, I am not sure. 
> 
> If you have any particular feelings, let me know. It might prompt me to write it, and probably much faster than I would do so myself.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
